


this line of work, a line through our hearts

by nobodysusername



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:27:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2116758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodysusername/pseuds/nobodysusername
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The salve that Enjolras’ slender fingers evenly apply to Grantaire’s shoulder leaves him feeling relaxed, lethargic. The calming effect is almost enough for Grantaire not to be hurt by Enjolras’ apathy.</p><p>“You were a liability,” he reminds the dark-haired man, ever uncharitable. “You broke protocol.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	this line of work, a line through our hearts

**Author's Note:**

> i scribbled this out while on a road trip - comments appreciated! ^u^

He no longer masquerades as invulnerable; he has already bared all for this god, this wayward Eros, and he has little left to lose now. (Enjolras, for his part, seems to appreciate Grantaire’s honesty.) 

The salve that Enjolras’ slender fingers evenly apply to Grantaire’s shoulder leaves him feeling relaxed, lethargic. The calming effect is almost enough for Grantaire not to be hurt by Enjolras’ apathy.

“You were a liability,” he reminds the dark-haired man, ever uncharitable. “You broke protocol.”

Grantaire merely grunts in response, the scrapes and burns far too fresh on his skin for him to risk the effort of coherence. He rests his head in his hands, massaging his temples and trying to calm the static still fritzing in his brain.

“The others had faith in you. Laughable, really, how certain they were that you could pull it off.”

It was a simple job, really. Barter full confession for the life of an innocent daughter, but no one had anticipated how willing Thenardier would be to let his spawn die at the hands of the law.

The daughter had been a mere three years younger than Grantaire. Her name was Eponine.

Critical condition, blunt trauma to the back of her head delivered by Mme. Thenardier, the Italian heir who had given all of her father’s connections to her less than savory husband.

Ironic, given that her files wrote only of her fondness for the children – the information that should have sealed the deal between Thenardier and justice.

No matter. Both Monsieur and Madame had been shot—disarmed, merely, for Enjolras had little penchance for blood—upon sight.

Grantaire had tried to protect the girl. His job had been to take out the snipers.

Of course, it would be impossible for Enjolras to understand the meaning of “outnumbered.”

Feuilly, naturally, had taken out all seven mafia snipers with ease, ensuring that Grantaire wasn’t killed (or rather, spared Enjolras’ righteous fury); the only injuries suffered by Grantaire himself were the cigarette burns, several acute lacerations, and a minor concussion (the latter two thanks to the Thenardier-allied drug kingpin, Montparnasse).

(In another life, Grantaire had mused before blacking out, he and Montparnasse may have gotten along.)

“Focus.” It’s a command, and rarely had Grantaire found it in himself to disobey the ineffable Enjolras.

He’s tired, and hungry, and aching. Ill equipped for work like this, in the field, in spite of his athletic capabilities. In the eyes of the luminous Apollo, he is a mere flea.

Grantaire searches within himself for the ability to voice his reasoning; triumphant, he pronounces: “She would have died.” Enjolras is unsympathetic.

“She was already unconscious when you leapt to protect her. You both would have been shot clean through. Seven snipers.” The venom in the blond’s voice stings worse than the salve as it seeps into the still oozing cuts.

Grantaire exhales, internally drawing up more energy. “I knew her,” he exhales, feeble and pathetic (as Enjolras has always seen him, he supposes).

Enjolras’ fingers freeze and Grantaire swallows down his whimper as the burns flare again, frayed nerves protesting.

“You knew the daughter?” he repeats. Perplexion and displeasure mingle at the edge of his intonation.

Grantaire finds it in him to glare at the floor, fingers tightening in his soot-stained hair. “You knew that. My parents moved to Lodei _direct_ from Italy.” He works hard to get out all he has to say, and he prays that it will be worth it. “I was the best man for the job because I’m fluent and I know the area. The odds were in favor of that coincidence, and it was a risk Valjean—hell, everyone—was willing to take. Except me.” It goes unspoken: _I had no agency in this plan_.

Perhaps a shred of sympathy from the stoic Enjolras.

There is none. He continues to apply the salve until there is none left to rub into Grantaire’s wounds. “Another error and you will be discharged,” he says, curt as ever.

Grantaire grits his teeth from the pain.

* * *

Jehan, at least, possesses an ocean of empathy. He drenches Grantaire in it, the waves cool and inviting.

“You poor dear,” he coos over the injured man. “Your cover blown, with your beau turning his cheek to your suffering.” Grantaire doesn’t correct him.

They sip tea and watch the people in Albany ebb and flow through the streets. It’s nice to be in New York, close enough to New Jersey that the wounds are fresh but far enough that he can pretend he hadn’t mis-stepped.

“I won’t be put in the field again for at least a month,” Grantaire says with conviction. Jehan pats his hand and passes him the bag of Milano cookies. “Enjolras thinks I’m spineless.”

Jehan shakes his head. “He knows better. He has no qualms with your tactics and he has been known to praise your work in the past, whether you’ve been aware of it or not. He was scared for you.”

Grantaire chokes down the tea, the leaves scraping at the back of his throat as he avoids Jehan’s soft gaze.

* * *

The leaves have turned in Madison, and New Jersey is as stale as ever. Enjolras doesn’t seem to mind too much.

“I was scared for you,” he admits finally, as they watch the geese flock to them in search of bread crumbs. “It was not distrust or disappointment. It was terror. They would have killed you.”

Grantaire closes his eyes, leaning against Enjolras. “I believe you.” And he does, truly. He continues, “I thought you were appalled by my mistake, then.”

“Eponine is finished with physical therapy. You saved her life, Grantaire.”

Grantaire laughs, bitter. “She was already unconscious,” he answers, reminiscent of the other man’s words to him months before.

“You knew her. Had they found that out, they would have taken you in for torture and left her somewhere alone. She is a lot safer because of you; I had not even realized, then. You did a lot of good.”

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s just part of the job. Hell, I wish more of the job was ‘doing good.’”

Enjolras kisses Grantaire’s temple. “You do enough,” he says, and Grantaire’s heart sings.


End file.
